


But All the Choirs in My Head Sang

by Laxiflorum



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Dramatic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Music, Last Moments, Oneshot, Reflection, Senses, Title from a Florence + the Machine Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28642905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laxiflorum/pseuds/Laxiflorum
Summary: You started to hear it again, but you can't say it's not the end.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	But All the Choirs in My Head Sang

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [All For You](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7180305/1/All-For-You) by [Sagebush](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2710963/Sagebush) and "Breath of Life" by Florence + the Machine. A short vignette that became a oneshot. If you're wondering why this is OOC, it's because I was letting out my inner drama queen for the month.
> 
> [Breath of Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qDRYphZ3Taw) [Florence + the Machine](https://florenceandthemachine.net/) 4:11
> 
> [Original Code by Layouttesst](https://layouttesst.livejournal.com/24421.html)

The moon has almost come down from the sky as the sun just breaks the horizon. What was that quote from that film again? _The night is always darkest before the dawn_ , but it hardly matters now. A gentle breeze touches down, rippling the grass across the hollow plains. It comes up to ruffle his hair, tracing the curve of his cheek. He can feel the sun's first rays upon the crown of his head: a little touch of heavenly light. He doesn't deserve to be given such a beautiful final blessing.

It's so quiet, _too quiet_. If he didn't know any better, he would've sworn he'd lost his hearing. His breathing, loud and ragged in the stillness, accompanies the roaring of blood in his ears and his heart beats strong – his own personal war drum. Aside from himself, it's silent. Birds who should've broken into morning song are mute, crickets aren't chirping, even the usual rustling of leaves is hushed. Nature's witnesses all hold their breath in the wake of what is about to happen.

Sweat mats his temple hair, running down his cheekbone. The ringed grip of his knife's hilt cuts into his palm and his toes wriggle out of the holes in his shoes to dig into the moist earth. Dew drops dampen the rags clinging to his legs when he gets too close, brushing against the grass. A shiver runs down his back. He quickly brings up his hands to rub against his arms, briskly smoothing down fair hairs and warming up fingertips gone numb. _This is no time to be getting cold feet._

Quite frankly, he stinks and he knows it. He smells like shit, dirt and grime – he knows he hasn't washed in a long time. Soot and smoke, sweat and piss – he could've been living in the sewers with a stench like this. Then there's the old booze and lingering regrets, he wants to give up _so badly_ – but he can't, not yet. A hundred different choices, futile apologies left unspoken – these are the things he decides are best left to be forgotten. The scent of death anoints him, tinged with the flavour of her favour for she has _always_ played favourites.

Sometimes, he wishes he had never been chosen to be one of her champions. Surely, Lady Death's hallowed privileges couldn't possibly be worth the steep prices he had been forced to pay.

In this frigid air, it is hard to taste anything. His mouth is desert dry, his tongue painfully rough. The faint, coppery taste of blood and salty tears lingers – two substances he has become _very_ close acquaintances with, especially in these last few days. But if he just focuses, he can taste it. _Fear_ , soon to be overwhelmed by the divine rush of adrenaline. His heart thrums, on the verge of simply leaping out of his chest and making a run for it. Perhaps, it would fare better somewhere far, far away from him. Looks like they'll never get to find out.

His grip on his knife slackens briefly, then tightens. It's almost time. Close, _so_ close. He has waited for so long, and now it all comes down to this. A fever begins to spread, from his heart down to his legs, every nerve alight and it _burns_. He was looking for a breath of life, a little touch of heavenly light – of course, he would only find it _now_. The breeze stills and the silence chills. It looks like the world is waiting for him, watching in anticipation of the carnage that is going to take root.

For a moment, he allows his eyes to meet the heavens. A foreign look crosses his face but he lets the world _see_. Let them see _just what exactly_ they have made, no more pretty façades to hide behind. He comes back down to earth – layers of mind, fleshy shell and bony tangibility wrap around him, enveloping the roiling essence that is his – or rather, _is_ him. He raises the knife up for a kiss, the steel blade cool and unjudging on his lips, sparking something in him. He stands.

It's a harder way and it's come to claim him. They are here. Swarming in droves, more than he could ever hope to defeat; but all the choirs in his head sing in defiance. Although he wasn't losing his mind, it _was_ a chorus so sublime and the rest of him cannot help but rise up to meet it. Some sick, twisted part of him preens at the fact that they sent so many people to get him – after all, being targeted by everyone is proof that he is powerful. Power in a world where he had none. But at what cost?

_All's fair in love and war._

* * *

_She always said, family should be together. He can't sleep anymore, he's all alone, because something's in there – and if they are gone, he will not belong here._

* * *

Don't they tell you to never bring a knife to a gunfight? Too late for that now - and besides, they're the ones who brought the fight. Some sane part of his mind is terrified, rightfully so, of being hunted down by the ones who took everything from him and the ones who made it happen. To be fair, he did stab both of them in the back but they cut him first. One or the other. MI6 or SCORPIA? "Which side was he on?", they ask. _On whose side am I?_

He should run, get away while he still has a chance. But he doesn't move. No dream of life again, rather, a little vision of the start and the end.

Shock spreads through the men surrounding him like wildfire: there's no way they could've seen this coming. They quickly recover themselves, a testament to their training. _This_ is what they are here for. _This_ is what they tore a family apart for. SCORPIA never forgives, SCORPIA never forgets; MI6 is utilitarian as ever – and he, young Alexander, the last of the Riders.

Three sides charge. His heart goes hollow, and the devil asks him for one last dance.

_Let's fucking go._


End file.
